


Cause When You Breathe, You Lie

by Theboys



Series: Dear God, It's Me, Dean [26]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Anal Play, Bottom Dean, Hurt Dean, M/M, Omega Dean, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sam, Pre-Series, Protective Dean, Protective Sam, Scared Dean, Timestamp, Top Sam, Young Dean, Young Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 20:13:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4493160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can see it in his eyes, the restlessness. Sammy’ll look at him, marble-glass stare, penetrating. </p><p>In which Dean is more aware of Sam than he even understands, and thus he continues to put his brother first.</p><p>Timestamp, Dean POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cause When You Breathe, You Lie

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Broken vs. The Way We Were Born by Emarosa.

Sammy scent-marks with the same passion he devotes to deciphering Physics equations.

S’like clockwork, too. Rises up, downy brown hair cresting over his pillow, despite Dean whispering, “It’s Saturday, Sammy. You ain’t got shit to do today.” Dean’s got on a black t-shirt, and it’s a fucking v-neck, he hates those, most of all.

He’s out of other ones, though, and he likes black. Easier to get engine grease on and still look relatively respectable. Blue jeans have a hole just under the left-hand pocket. Sam hates those jeans, and Dean pokes loose fingers into the gap, just to piss him off. Pink tongue wiggling through gapped teeth.

_You have other pants, Dean_

Dean’s two cents of laughter, small waves around his eyes. “Don’t care about these, Sammy.” Dean tries to get out of the door Sammy-free, he really does, but the kid is a bloodhound. Could know he was an Alpha if you just passed by his room, saw his lean body sprawled out under sheets. Taking up all the space you knew how to give, and then all the rest.

“Dean, c’mere. Dean.” Sleep-thick rumble, small bite in his voice so Dean knows he’s serious. Dean’s not strong enough to fight off his little brother anymore. He’s known it for years, can tell in the slick planes of Sam’s back, veins criss-crossing like chicken wire.

Big hands gripping everything extra tight, can’t ever tell how much is too much. Doesn’t bother Dean as much as it probably should, but Dean’s always been a realist. Alphas are bred tougher. It’s the way of things. Dean’s no slouch, monster in his own right, but he couldn’t take Sammy on, headfirst. He’s had to be cunning.

Fight the wolf, not the boy.

Dean sighs with good humor and follows Sam’s beckons, same as he used to do when Sam was seven and demanded bananas slathered in peanut butter.

_Warm it up, Dean. Want it on toast._

Sam is upright, rapidly, and no sixteen year old boy should be that damn self aware at seven in the morning. Dean holds himself rigidly, knows Sammy has an aversion to his skin, his very proximity, at times. Doesn’t sting the way it used to, is all dull aches in his chest, latent cancerous tumor, outwardly benign.

Sam’s thorough, here.

Knows Sam’s skin prickles at the non-scent, can never make his wolf bow down and adjust

Not in his nature. Alpha and wolf remain at odds, two halves of a whole.

Dean holds his breath when Sam scents his neck, covers his face and chin with the same Alpha-snarl he’s been using for months now. Clarity and possession in the _mine._

Little brother willfully grasping, slender fingers, tanned with sweat and summer, delicate violence. Pumping stringently through little-boy veins, too young to be the wild, untamed thing that every Alpha-male houses. Thumbtack of control, Dean can hear it in the cadence of his voice when his Alpha vocals tangle with human ones.

Sam can’t ever think that Dean doesn’t spend every single day in awe of him.

Sam’s always taut when he releases Dean, five deep, controlled breaths, every time, incisors extracted, primal justification. Dean doesn’t mind it, embraces the instinct, because he can smell himself afterwards, for the first time. It’s not his own scent, but it’s something. It’s a wolf-something.

Barely remembers what his omega scent used to smell like.

Mentioned it, offhandedly, to Sam once.

“Don’t know what I smelled like when I presented, Sam. S’fucking weird thing, you know?”

He was at a place where he had accepted (tolerated) the lack, nothing to be done about it now, John had sterilized him, jackal claws in his womb, inhospitable for life. Smelled like defection and decay. Nothing.

Dean’s driving the Impala, says this, knuckles tense for a second cause it’s out there. Dean’s been this way as long as Sam can remember. Isn’t particularly fond of giving his brother any further ammunition against John, too much Alpha-hormone between them as it is, seeping into new wounds.

They almost come to blows, sometimes. Sammy’ll start looking for a mate, soon, start feeling that deep-down misery that comes from being torn asunder, wolf shredding his skin, searching for a place to take his little brother. A place to claim and mark, call home.

He can see it in his eyes, the restlessness. Sammy’ll look at him, marble-glass stare, penetrating. Vein clicking in his temple, the one that always pulsates when Sam’s enraged, or when he’s holding himself down. Old West standoff with his Alpha.

Thinks Dean doesn’t see it.

But he does.

“Smelled like oranges, Dean.” Said in an indistinct tone, and Dean swerves minutely, curses himself under his breath. Since Sam presented, he’s not been exactly, forceful, but he’s always been a definite presence. Sammy still knows how to be quiet, but he’s never been inarticulate. Never been anything less than all-encompassing.

He’s damn near sheltering himself, as if he didn’t want to tell Dean, but couldn’t help it. Dean smiles, liquid beast, and cracks his neck, John’s old leather jacket catching on his hairline. S’growing too damn fast now, he’ll need a trim soon.

“Like that old farm in Florida that we stole from? When you were twelve?” Dean winks in mischief, snags on to his brother’s gaze and holds it, quietly begging him to play along. Dean can’t talk about his little death in any serious fashion.

Sam bumps his knees against Baby’s dashboard, purposefully, slants a grin at Dean’s displeasure. “You had me hide ‘em in my underwear, Dean. Said we were peeling them anyway, wouldn’t matter in the end.”

Dean roars his laughter, remembers that, sixteen years old, demanding Sam carry them anyway he knew how, cause

_when the fuck we gonna have this much fruit again, Sam? I ain’t gotta spend all our money in the goddamned produce section_

Sam’s cry-laughing, Adam’s apple bobbing as he leans his head back against the seat, tiny tear tracks mauling his face. Probably remembering how he waddle-ran, oranges in hands, pockets and baby-boy briefs, gangly penguin.

He lets Sam appease his wolf before he leaves this morning, bundles himself in Sam’s old winter coat, warmer than his and bigger, and Dean’s old one is too small. Sam smiles at him, tight but summery, happy-scent eeking out in waves, melting ice cream and sunlight.

Little bit of Sammy he gets to keep, locked down real tight. Omega preening a little, wraps himself up in that pleasant smell of acceptance.

Sam’s getting closer and closer to seventeen. Showed Dean pamphlets, the other day, quiet like, wolf sheathed behind a wall of Sam, baby brother, told Dean he needed to take the SAT. Needed to send the scores off so he could apply to colleges. Stood a little bit off to the side, respectful but determined. Alpha bending himself to Dean’s will.

But let there be no mistake, Sammy will get it done, alone, or with cooperation. Dean’s heart snags at that. So fucking proud of the little shit. He doesn’t know why Sam even bothers with him. They offer him a chance to skip a grade every year, at least once, wherever he might be in school at the time. He’s not a knot-brain, keeps his Alpha constrained to points where it almost seems painful.

Appears like Sam’s in a bloody battle, all malevolence. Those days Dean gives him space. Has no idea what it means to Alpha-out. To need to exercise control in all things, for the sake of mental sobriety. Test is 85 bucks. Plus Sam’ll need the damn book to study from.

Dean’s got about thirty bucks saved until Dad gets home. He’s relatively good about coming back within the time frame he provides, problem is, his frames aren’t ever very short. Dean hasn’t eaten a full meal in three days. Doesn’t know if John forgot that he’s got a growing Alpha to feed, but Sam can never be satisfied.

Never says a damn thing about it, either, keeps silent, scribbling madly at his homework, handling two textbooks in one palm each, double skimming. He’s never aware that he sends out a hunger-scent, dry desert heat and warm water. Dean keeps feeding him. Pretends he doesn’t want the last of his burger. Watches Sam’s solemn eyes light up, bright-eyed relief.

Dean doesn’t notice so much, after that.

He hates what he is. What he’s debased to. Works odd jobs on the side, as many as will pay, can’t afford to take a long term job unless he and Sam are here to stay for a while. But he knows people. Knows hungry mated Alphas, burning deep with rejection, smell like rancid meat and flies.

Dean steers clear of them, can’t think of defiling himself that way.

He’s got a regular here, and it’s not so bad as usual. In Massachusetts, town isn’t too tiny, not too big, easy to get lost, which is how Dean prefers it. Thomas isn’t mated. Soon to be though, pretty little Omega named Stephanie, pale grey eyes and short brown hair. She loves him. Die for him, if he’d let her. Bare her slender neck at the bar he owns downtown and let him claim her.

Knock over bottles of Glenlivet, tangle them together in Belvedere, glass and scarlet.

Thomas cares about her. Cares about the way of things. Tells Dean this after, smoothing his hair down, asking if he can please, _please_ claim him. He doesn’t care that he’s got to look after his little brother, he’ll do that too. He’s thirty, he’s established. He just loves Dean so much.

Dean allows Thomas to bend him over, real pretty, kiss at his hole like he likes to do, nip at it gently until Dean’s rocking back against his lips, coating them liberally in slick. Fucks Dean like he’s the antidote to an incurable disease. Smothers him in his scent, river and grey smoke.

_Please, baby. I’ll never love her this way. Won’t ever want anyone else. You just look at me, like that, and I just, ah, fuck, Dean, wanna keep you safe._

Dean scoffs inwardly, could protect this man from all manner of cruelty without breaking a sweat, but he nods sweetly, eyes innocent and wide.

_Gotta look after my brother. All I’ve got, Thomas_

He pays Dean too much. Pays him too much, every time, absolution and beggary. Hushes Dean’s protests, tugs him close, plays with his lips until they’re bitter and swollen. Shudders low in his body, firm hands in Dean’s hair.

_Come back, baby. I’ll do anything. Just--just come back, okay?_

He says yes, what else is he worth but his word, pockets the money, smiles hesitantly, ducks his head.

Stops at the gas station on his drive back home, to Sammy, same difference, scrubs hard with gas station soap, loose liquid and suds. Cleans out his ass with four fingers, jams them deep and twists, rides them until he’s coming, desperate mewl, one hand braced against the chipped sink, dirty smell of cum on his thighs.

Won’t smell like Sammy, anymore, but at least he smells like himself.

**Author's Note:**

> thoughts?


End file.
